As I find is often the case with higher executives, my employer had grossly underestimated, or simply chosen to ignore, the difficulties involved with performing a specific task delegated to a subordinate, choosing instead to lump all his assistance and advice into the brief phrase "Just do it. Okay? Make it happen!" While this may be a successful method for said executive to shift the bulk of the responsibility for a task off his own shoulders, it effectively leaves the designated subordinate to, as they say, "twist in the wind," bearing the brunt of the blame for the methodology, as well as the results, of their efforts.
With my humble assistance, however, Lieutenant Rembrandt had completed her assignment prior to the company's arrival on Jewell, or, should I say, completed most of it.
Phule barely recognized his senior lieutenant as he disembarked from the shuttle at the Jewell spaceport. In fact, he might have missed her completely had she not been standing next to Beeker in the waiting area.
Rembrandt had forsaken her usual long-braided ponytail, and her dark brown hair now hung loosely almost halfway down her back. There was no sign of her customary black Legionnaires uniform, either, as she was dressed in a deceptively simple white blouse and dark skirt combination, topped off with a camel-colored sweater worn over her shoulders like a cape, with the arms tied loosely around her neck. Her wardrobe, combined with the stack of folders she was hugging with both arms and the pencil stuck behind her ear, gave her the appearance of the young assistant of someone in some branch of the entertainment field-which was, of course, what she was striving for.
"Lieutenant ... Beeker," Phule said, coming to a halt in front of them. "That's a new look for you, isn't it, Rembrandt?"
Rembrandt's normally pale complexion suddenly exploded with a bright pink blush.
"Sorry, sir. Becker said ... I mean, I felt ... Well, you said we shouldn't let anyone know I was with the Space Legion, so I thought ..."
"Whoa! Stop the music!" the commander said, holding up a restraining hand. "There's no need to apologize, Lieutenant. I was just teasing you a little. You look fine ... really. In fact, you look exceptionally good in that outfit. You should wear skirts more often."
Rather than looking relieved, Rembrandt's blush deepened to the approximate red of a tomato in a seed catalog.
"Thank you, sir," she mumbled, averting her eyes. "Beeker helped pick it out."
Painfully aware that his efforts to lighten the mood were only making matters worse, Phule cast around desperately for a change in subject.
"So ... what have you got for me there?" he said, looking pointedly at the folders Rembrandt was clutching.
"These are the resumes of the actors and my notes on them for your review, sir," the lieutenant said, gratefully slipping into the more familiar military mode as she thrust her load at her commander.
"Excellent," Phule said, accepting the stack and idly opening the top folder to glance at the contents. As he did, the three-dimensional holo-photo which was the inevitable inside cover of an actor's portfolio sprang to life, projecting a miniature person who seemed to be standing on the folder. He ignored it, scanning the printed pages instead. "I assume they'll be ready to load and board this evening?"
Rembrandt licked her lips nervously.
"I ... those are only my final recommendations, sir. I've been holding off finalizing them pending your approval."
The commander's head came up with a snap.
"You mean they haven't been notified to be ready for departure?"
"Well, I have them on standby, but I explained that you had to approve the final selection, so they're-"
Phule slapped the cover shut on the top folder, squashing the actor's image in the process, and handed the entire stack back, interrupting her in midsentence.
"Get them on the horn and tell them they're hired," he said firmly.
"Lieutenant," the commander cut her short, "I gave you this assignment because I trust your judgment. If you say these are the best candidates, then that's what we'll go with."
"But I'm not sure of a couple of these, sir. I was hoping you could-"
"Being sure is a luxury you rarely get as an officer, Lieutenant. You make the best guess you can in the time allowed, then make it the right choice."
"But ..."
"Our main criterion is that they fit into uniform sizes that we have in stock. Outside of that, they're mostly window dressing. As to personalities ... well ... if you'll recall, we took potluck with this company to start with. I doubt there is anyone in there that will be more of a problem case than the Legionnaires we're already dealing with. Agreed?"
"I ... I guess so sir."
"Fine. Like I've said before, Rembrandt, you need to be more decisive. I don't have time to duplicate your work-and neither do you if we're going to give the new bodies time to pack and get on board before lift-off. I suggest you start moving."
"Yes, sir!"
Momentarily forgetting her civilian garb, Rembrandt drew herself to attention and fired off a salute before fleeing her commander's presence.
"Well, Beek," Phule said, turning to his butler at last, "except for that, how are things going?"
"Rather better than they are for you, it would seem ... sir." Beeker's voice was utterly devoid of warmth.
"How's that again?" Phule frowned. "Is something wrong, Beek?"
"Not at all, sir. It's always a treat to watch the finesse and compassion with which you handle your subordinates. Of course, I have noticed that your skill level seems to drop in direct proportion to the amount of sleep you've been getting ... sir."
The commander shot a glance in the direction in which Rembrandt had disappeared.
"What you're trying to say, in your traditionally subtle way, of course, is that you think I was a little hard on Rembrandt just now. Right?"
"I suppose from your point of view, sir, you were being quite tolerant," the butler observed blandly. "I mean, you could have had her stood up against a wall and shot."
"I'll take that as a 'yes.'" Phule sighed heavily. "I guess ..."
"Or then again, flogging is always effective, if a bit outdated," Beeker continued as if his employer hadn't spoken.
"All right, all right! I get the point! I guess I've been a bit tense lately. Relocating the company has been more of a hassle than I anticipated."
"I wouldn't know, sir," Beeker said, shrugging slightly. "What I do know, however, is how hard Lieutenant Rembrandt has been working on the assignment you so casually dumped on her, and how concerned she's been about whether or not you'd approve of her efforts, much less her results."
"Which is why she wanted me to review her choices before finalizing them," Phule said, finishing the thought. "Of course, my barking at her is only going to hurt, not help, her confidence, which is the exact opposite of what I wanted to have happen."
"It's hard to see where anything positive will come from your current stance ... in my own, humble opinion, sir," the butler confirmed mercilessly.
Phule gave another sigh, running a hand over his face like he was trying to wipe water from it, and seemed to deflate back into himself.
"Sorry, Beek," he said. "I seem to be running tired these days. You know, when I was giving the crew going under cover their final briefing, Armstrong had to point out to me that I was getting redundant-that I had reviewed the procedures on their new communicators three times even though there hadn't been any questions. Can you believe that? Armstrong? Keeping me from making an idiot of myself in front of the troops?"
"Lieutenant Armstrong has come a long way," Beeker observed, "but I see your point. I think, however, that your troops, like myself, will be inclined to worry rather than be critical over minor flaws in your performance."